Jean-Luc waves a hand. “Of course not. Helping you is part of my job. But don’t you think the police have it handled? I’m not sure attempting to double their work is how you should spend your days here in . . .” His voice trails off at my stony expression. “Okay. If you’re set on this, the embassy wants to help. Just let me know what you need.”

“Thanks.”

The waiter drops the check, and Jean-Luc says something in French to him. Jean-Luc nods a chin in my direction. “Anything to go? Straight coffee grinds to sniff later?”

I laugh in spite of myself, in spite of everything. “I guess I was really excited about that café allongé thing.”

He smiles, then pays in cash.

Jean-Luc’s knowledge of the Sorbonne cuts my search among its seven dispersed campuses in half. It would have taken me hours to determine Delphine Rousseau’s office is on the central campus, across the river on the Left Bank. We walk the four blocks to the Sorbonne, the oldest and most revered university in France. Divining Angela’s research myself is leading nowhere—assuming that was her intention when she wrote her blog post to me: divine research, or guess/discover/analyze her studies here. Hopefully, her dissertation director is clued in to Angela the Academic.

From outside, the university appears like many buildings in Paris: severe, regal, probably levying skyrocket rent for the interior apartments. Its architecture could be from the 1800s or earlier (dates were always Angela’s forte), with high windows over ornate sills and carved stone shaped as drooping fabric, a frieze above each panel of glass. The perimeter of buildings spans an area of several blocks, staking its claim on the sidewalk real estate. From where we stand, a broad iron gate is the only way in.

Across the threshold, we head for a brick structure with sculpted vines curving along a rigid archway. Modern glass doors contrast the deep-set, chiseled words above—SCIENCES HUMAINES ET SOCIALES. In the lobby, locked cases display grades from the most recent semester alongside a large directory listing rooms. We climb to the second floor, ignoring the curious stares of the afternoon custodial staff, and arrive at the office marked BUREAU D’AMÉNAGEMENT—the urban planning office. A man with a towel approaches us and asks a question.

“He wants to see a student ID,” Jean-Luc translates, “and says we can’t be here without one.”

When Jean-Luc explains we’re not students, the man raises his voice—an angry bark—and he holds out a hooked thumb. He motions for us to leave—“Allez!”

On the first floor below, people look up from their books or phones. Jean-Luc replies in a low tone as a woman marches over to us from the stairwell.